


The Amulet

by Taransay



Series: The Wolves of Jorrvaskr [1]
Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Action/Adventure, Adventure, F/M, Friendship, Friendship/Love, M/M, Male Friendship, Male-Female Friendship, Romantic Friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-16
Updated: 2016-04-16
Packaged: 2018-06-02 15:23:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6571450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Taransay/pseuds/Taransay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Vilkas appears to have very little opinion on you, and then a dragon appears. Hint of Vilkas/Dovahkiin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part I

The sun is beginning to disappear behind the snow-capped mountains to the right of you. There isn’t one single cloud in the sky, and the first lot of stars are beginning to appear.

You inhale the crisp evening air, feel the breeze comb through your hair. Skyrim is a harsh, cold land. In parts its completely barren, with no love for a careless wanderer. Yet, you can’t help but admire its untamed beauty.

The black warhorse that Vilkas rides, snorts, tosses its head from side to side and crunches on its bit. Vilkas slaps its neck, mutters to the horse. The soothing words are exhaled with white vapour clouds. They’re the first words he has spoken in hours.

It’s been a long day. You feel your muscles sag, and your bones and rear are numb from sitting in a saddle all day. You think about suggesting stopping for the evening and then it happens.

It hits you before you even hear its roar, the sensation of a million icy fingers running up your spine. You shudder. The evening air brings something other than cold.

You can hear the beat of its mighty wings. The sky above you darkens. You don’t look up, not even when Vilkas’ leaps from his horse and shouts the beast’s name.

You just know.

From the moment when you uttered your first dragon word, when you defeated the dragon outside Whiterun and its soul dissolved into yours. Since then you have been aware of them. Know when they are close.

Now you know one has found you. Know even before it lands on the road before you.

The ground shakes beneath its feet.

Vilkas’ calls your name. ‘By Ysgramor’s beard! A dragon.’ He rubs the back of his neck, and you notice the tone of uncertainty in his voice, as if even he doubts what he is saying.

The black warhorse rears. Its eyes roll back in its sockets. Grabbing hold of the reigns, Vilkas tries to steady it but then loosens his grip and slaps the horse on its rump. It neighs and thunders off in the opposite direction.

The dragon slams its forearms into the ground. The burnt orange of the dying sunset adds shine to its grey scales.

Vilkas knocks an arrow onto the string of his bow. 'Are you coming down, or are you going to stay up there and fight?’ He pulls back the string.

The arrow whistles through the air, heads straight for the dragon’s head. But before it can reach its target the dragon rears, beats its wing causing a cloud of dust and earth, and knocks the arrow away from its destination.

Landing on all of its four limbs, the dragon begins to scrabble towards you.

Your horse dances beneath you, twists and turns on the spot. Stamps its feet on the ground, and tries to break free of your grip. There’s no point staying on a creature who wishes to head away from danger as opposed to towards it, so you slip your feet out of the stirrups and slide down as Vilkas grabs the reigns.

Vilkas sends your horse after his with another slap.

'Didn’t think you were going to join me there,’ he says, loads another arrow and lets it fly. 'Thought you might want to join the horses.’ He looks at you directly in the eyes, tilts his head back and you catch one of his rare smiles.

Another arrow from Vilkas’ bow is fired. It hits the dragon in a soft spot just near its knee joint. It doesn’t hinder the dragon. You imagine the arrows are what flies are to a horse.

In a few groping strides it stands before you and Vilkas, a behemoth in armour made of raven scales. 

As the dragon rears, your muscles tense, rooting you to the spot.

There’s a voice at the back of your mind. You hate to acknowledge it for fear of feeling like a coward, but that doesn’t stop it from being there. It’s always there. Every warrior hears it when they are presented with situations like this. It is the death knell. The keening screech of the banshee. It is a voice telling you that you are going to die.

The dragon snaps its head back and then drives it at you. With only the thought of preserving your life for a little longer, you bring your shield up.

Its snout crashes against the wood of the shield. Your feet begin to slide beneath you, churning up mud. Automatically you screw your feet up in your boots, as if your toes could break through your footwear and into the ground for extra grip.

You wonder what Vilkas is doing, and what you did to warrant the full attention of the dragon - considering he was the one firing the arrows. Then, as if he has read your mind, he appears at your side.

The Nord swings his sword just as the dragon opens his mouth.

The dragon’s teeth are like mini pikes. About the size of your arm with deadly points, you know that with teeth like that, it could snap you in half with one bite.

For a second the dragon’s attention is diverted to Vilkas’ broad sword. It’s teeth clash against the sword’s metal. A sudden burst of flame comes from the back of its throat. The acrid smell of burnt wood and overcooked flesh fills your nostrils.

Vilkas dodges away.

The dragon swings its head back towards you. It hits you in the chest and sends you backwards. You feel the air forced out of your lungs, and feel the sudden thump of the earth hitting your back. You see the night sky and the first trail of the aurora borealis as it begins to dance. 

That voice was right. You are going to die.


	2. Part II

Someone is calling your name. You don’t recognise the voice.

Fog encircles your mind and all you see is darkness.

Again, the voice speaks your name.

A feeling stirs in the pit of your stomach. You feel something tug inside you. It pulls you forward in the dark.

The darkness folds back on itself. Then you see him, clad in nothing but a loincloth. You take in his muscular figure, his bare chest, dappled deer-like skin, and the skull of a stag he wears as a mask. Hircine.

Hircine calls to you.

The darkness has dissolved into dense forest. Enormous trees with thick trunks and roots that burrow deep into the earth, surround you. The ghostly notes of birdsong drift on a breeze carrying tendrils of mist. In the distance, you can hear wolves howling.

The Father of Manbeasts reaches out to you with his right hand. Your skin prickles and for a second you are tempted. No, not tempted. It’s want that fills you. Want. Need. Desire. In this very moment you want very little else than to reach out to Hircine. Take his hand.

The wolf inside you tugs at your soul, pulling you forwards as if it is attached to you by a ethereal umbilical cord.

You wonder what it would be like to touch a Daedric Prince.

Hunger stirs.

Blood thuds through your body like a drumbeat.

You want to go and hunt.

Inside you lurks two beasts. There’s the wolf - a gift from Hircine, given to you by The Companions. Then there’s the dragon. A gift given to you at birth by Akatosh. Both creatures fight for dominance over your soul. Both twist around your very being, and both fight against each other.

The dragon half of your soul snaps at the wolf part, chases it around your mind and pushes it back into the recesses of your mind.

The drumming call to hunt begins to die.

Like a bolt of lightning breaking through the clouds, it suddenly occurs to you that you are not ready to die.

Hircine snaps his fingers shut, lowers his hand. ‘You will come to me in time,’ he says, and you know that whilst the wolf remains inside of you this is nothing but the truth.

You open your eyes and find yourself lying beneath a ruby coloured reptilian glare.

Your wooden shield is the only thing that stands between your delicate, soft body and that of the dragon’s maw.

How flimsy that shield now feels. In the past you have been reassured by its solid wood and iron handles, able to deflect arrows and swords, but dragon?

The dragon surveys you through narrowed eyes, turns its head from side to side and then lowers it. Its nostrils flare, you hear it snort and for a second panic rises in you.

What if it’s about to dowse you in flame?

Before speculation can be turned into an answer you feel hands lock underneath your arms and haul you backwards.

'What’s the matter wolf pup?’ Relief floods you at the sound of Vilkas’ voice. 'I’ve never seen you shy in the face of the Silver Hand’s most fierce warriors. What’s a dragon to you?’

You scrabble to your feet as the dragon lunges for you.

Vilkas’ fires an arrow and it strikes the dragon in the eye. A ripe red tear oozes from the wound and trickles down the side of the dragon’s face.

The dragon roars, raises a front claw, slashes it towards Vilkas. Vilkas - who with surprising grace for such a muscular man - dances backwards whilst shouldering his bow and clasping both hands around his longsword. He swings the sword, moves close to the dragon and latches the blade beneath a scale. He twists the sword and the scale springs off, twisting through the air like a giants fingernail. Raw pink flesh exposed, Vilkas hacks his sword into the flesh.

The dragon arches his wings, hisses, stumbles on its legs.

Seeing that its attention is completely on your companion, you dig your sword into the wing closest to you.

The blade slices through the ebony wing membrane, makes a tearing sound like a knife cutting through leather. The beast thrashes, turns - mouth open.

This is your opportunity.

Sword in hand, you loosen your grip on the shield. The shield clatters to the floor just as you leap forwards. You bound over the dragon’s snapping mouth. Launch yourself so that when you land it is atop of the dragon’s head.

The beast throws its head from side to side. You grip onto his horns with your free hand. Then when you find your footing and feel as steady as one can on a constantly moving creature, you take your sword in both hands, drive it downwards, bypassing the flesh, the skull, and strike home at its brain.

'For Sovngarde!’ Vilkas shouts, and you think the same things as you jump from the dragon’s head.

The dragon staggers before slumping onto its chest. Like parchment being consumed by flame, its skin begins to peel away from its skeleton. Caught by the wind, the flakes of skin drift away like embers from a fire.

'By Ysgramor…’ Vilkas mutters.

Decomposition in a matter of seconds.

For a second you forget what happens next. You forget the final song of a dying dragon. So when it hits you, it catches you unprepared.

Like a blast of wind, the soul of the dragon rushes towards you.

You hear words spoken in voices so ancient the whole world has forgotten what they sound like. And as the soul surrounds you - melds with your own - those voices fill your head, stirs an essence within you that you has remained dormant since birth.

Air feels your lungs. You want to speak, want to shout, want to scream.

Words run through your head, written in a language you cannot even begin to comprehend and yet you naturally understand.

You say one of those words and the world falls apart.

Vision blurred, you feel yourself fall into the horizon.


	3. Conclusion

'I would never have believed it had I not seen it with my own eyes. Our Harbinger, also Dragonborn.’ Vilkas prods the camp fire with a stick. 'Are you hungry? There’s food in the pot.’ He steps around the fire, presses a clay mug into your hand. 'Drink,’ he says.

You expect the mug to be full of mead so it surprises you then when press the mug to your chapped lips, tilt your head back and feel the cool splash, taste the null flavour of water against your tongue.

The water clears some of the grogginess from your head.

'You took quite a fall to the ground,’ Vilkas says. 'I thought you were dead.’ His brow wrinkles. 'Didn’t fancy being the one to cart you all the way back to Jorrvaskr.’

Vilkas takes a seat next to you, leans forwards and peers into your face. 'I heard the rumours. Thought it was idle gossip,’ and he reaches forwards, brushes a strand of hair from your cheek. Then he quickly withdraws, coughs and clears his throat.

'When Farkas hears of this he’ll be wanting you to hunt a dragon just so he can see it with his own eyes.’ There’s a hint of warmth in his voice, a tint of admiration that you haven’t heard since you were suddenly made Harbinger at Ysgramor’s Tomb.

You sink back down into your cocoon of furs and blankets.

The First Seed sun has disappeared and been replaced by the moon, Masser. From where you lie you stare at the consolations as they wink down at you from the sky. 

'Found them wandering not far from here,’ Vilkas says, diverting your attention to your two steeds tethered close by. 'None the worse for wear.’ You feel relieved, not only because you are fond of the two creatures, but also because navigating the terrain of Skyrim is made so much easier on horseback.

'Should get some rest,’ Vilkas says. It is the most he has ever spoken to you in such a small amount of time.

* * *

Both of you rise as the first beams of the sun begin to push between the branches of the trees Vilkas built the camp beneath.

You help Vilkas roll up the furs and blankets, trample out the remaining embers of the fire, collect the utensils and pack them away onto the horses backs.

'Should head that way,’ Vilkas says, pointing the direction you are to go. 'Should arrive at the cave as morning ends.’ A frown creases his brow. 'Hope we’re not too late.’

You slide a foot into the stirrup and just as you are about to mount your horse Vilkas rests an arm upon your shoulder.

'Yesterday, I did worry Hircine had dragged you to his Hunting Grounds.’

For a second you consider telling him about your vision. About how you had seen Hircine when the dragon knocked you to the floor. You decide against it.

'Wasn’t sure whether I should return this to you. But it’s yours, so I guess I should.’ He pulls you away from your horse, takes your hand, pushes back your fingers and places an amulet upon your palm.

'It came off you yesterday when you collapsed. After you 'absorbed’ the dragon soul, or whatever it is you Dragonborn do.’

He closes your hand around the amulet, rubs his thumb across the top of your fingers. 'Perhaps it’s best you keep it off? Don’t want others to start thinking you are available.’

You rub your fingertips across the familiar surface of the amulet. Trace the knot work with your fingernails. An Amulet of Mara lies in your hand. The one you got from Riften all those months ago.


End file.
